


Lovely

by vexmybones



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complete, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Not Beta Read, One Shot, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 12:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16118909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vexmybones/pseuds/vexmybones
Summary: Everything hurts in the most beautiful way.





	Lovely

The silence hangs heavy, your words of a moment before mere memory. Every breath hurts, is suffocating in the worst possible way. You're breathing them in. You have bathed in their ashes. Sam isn't there, lungs heaving with exertion and quip at the ready. Wanda, oh fuck. She's lost to the sky and earth, and you've failed her same as you did her brother.

Bucky. His name makes you ache. Dying was easier than this agony, a rehearsal for the final act. Your insides are scrambled, twisted ruins left in the wake of an unnatural catastrophe, they are turning to stone. How do you get up (out of Wanda's ashes) and put one foot in front of the other? How are you supposed to leave him behind again? The last time you did terrible things happened.

Those left rally around you. You want to scream at them, ask why they're looking to you for guidance. 'I'm just a man', you want to spit at their terrified faces. You're less than a man now, though, a hollow urn that's cracked and useless. Holy oil can no longer fill you up because _he_ is no longer here to anoint you. You're no longer able to provide them with protection, or faith. Faith without works is dead and you do not want to work anymore.

You want to beg them to put you out of your misery, a single bullet between the eyes is all it would take. This time you wouldn't wake up 70 years in a foreign future. No, if you die now then maybe, just maybe the two of you can finally rest. God, you're so tired. Suddenly you're angry, absolutely furious at him for leaving you again. If you could have resisted his pull and stayed away, left him in Shuri's capable hands, maybe he'd still be here, and you'd be gone in his place.

There's a hand on your shoulder. Natasha's grip is tight, just this side of painful on your raw skin. Your breath hitches on a sob that you can't contain.

"Bucky," the sound of his name scrapes and slices at your mouth with its jagged edges. De-aging and shrinking in on yourself, you become that tiny asthmatic kid watching his mother slip away right in front of him. Knees tuck protectively into your chest and scrawny arms wrap around them. That vision is superimposed atop your tactical suit and the burning reality that you don't want to participate in any longer.

"Steve?"

You curve tighter into yourself, his last word echoed in this hell. You always knew that some stupid stunt you pulled would get him killed, you just didn't expect it to happen repeatedly, like a horror filled version of Groundhog Day. He used to joke that you'd be the death of him, and oh how you wish he wasn't right.

"Steve."

You ignore the sharpness of your name stabbing into the exposed and razed skin of your heart. You can't help these people that you call your friends. You've failed half of them already, can't they see this? The organ in cage of your ribs is grotesque and beats chaotically. It hurts to breathe.

"Steve!"

The grip on your shoulder squeezes almost inhumanly, grinding bone. You're drowning and it's your only chance at resurfacing, and so a trembling hand reaches up and grasps those fingers. You break the surface with a ragged breath, scream caught in your throat.

"Hey, hey... you're okay. I'm right here, we're at home. Sam's on the couch 'cause Nat kicked him out again, something about a girly night with Wanda. Stark's in Australia at some tech convention. Thor and Banner are in Asgard... New Asgard. He was so proud of it when Banner called the other day. I swear, even his grin is like sunshine..."

Bucky's rambling is accompanied by a hot palm rubbing soothing circles over your heart, an attempt to coax it into submission. Your lashes are spiky with tears, cheeks damp, and your throat feels like you've swallowed broken glass. You blink rapidly to clear your vision, the soft, yellow light from the lamp on Bucky's nightstand illuminating the confines of your bedroom.

None of that means anything, it fails to sink into your dream addled mind. What matters is the heart against your back, sleep-stale breath on your temple, and the warm and chilled palms that hold you together. He is what matters. The role call spoken in his tired, sure voice, the same voice that's been in your ear for the whole of your life. He is here. You are here. There is pain, but it's bearable. Contorting within his hold, you press your face to his chest, ear to his heart. He doesn't bat an eye or stop talking.

It isn't long until his ploy works and your muscles loosen, heart slowing to a steady mimic of his beat. You're exhausted but are afraid to fall back asleep. To dream of a world where he no longer exists is your worst nightmare playing on a screen. He's the sinew that binds about your bones and makes you strong; without him you cannot stand. He is written in the pages of your story, a vital component to your mechanics. To have him now, after everything that the two of you have been through is an utter miracle. You're not a devout man, but you thank God with every breath you take that he's with you. He's okay. You're okay. You're together.

The bedroom door's hinges squeak and Bucky's arms tighten protectively, possessively, before they relax in recognition. The light scuff of socks across the hardwood tells you it's Sam. He makes no effort in being careful as be crawls onto the bed, bumping knees and elbowing thighs. He sits against the headboard and stretches his legs out atop the sheets. You reach for him automatically and wrap clumsy fingers around his hand. He let's you have it like a parent would a scared child, and you're grateful. Because he _knows_ what it's like; he didn't get to wake up and Riley is still gone.

He and Bucky talk and their words run together. He shows you a pic Nat sent a couple hours ago. It's of her and Wanda posed in front of a mirror, their hair teased ridiculously high, neon pink paint probably still drying on their fingers, while their wine grows warm. Your chest loosens some more. You blink and forget to open your eyes.

  
  


\+ + +

  
  


There's a weight on your legs and an arm securely around your waist. Lids heavy with sleep open slowly. Sun slants through the curtains warming everything a golden hue, creating a dreamlike haze among the tangled limbs. It paints the room in shadows but these aren't the kind that scare you. A pale hand tipped with a vibrant pink rests on a chocolate shoulder. Sam's fingers are still threaded through yours, an anchor even in rest. He slumbers on as Natasha reaches out and brushes errant strands from your brow, palm cradling your bearded jaw as if you're something precious.

“I made coffee,” she whispers.

You offer her a genuine smile and glance down as she withdraws her hand. Wanda is curled up atop your legs, a loyal cat protecting her pet. Nat stoops to whisper in her ear, running a hand though her hair as the other woman stirs. She blinks sleepily up at the blonde and nods, then she turns her gaze onto you. Her smile is honey sweet and concerned. Gently untangling your person from the two soldiers, you move to the end of the bed as she stands. Wanda cards a hand through your sleep mussed locks and you breathe in the scent of her lingering perfume reverently.

“I'll be out in a minute,” your voice is thick.

She nods and leaves the room. You stand in the wake of her and glance over your shoulder. In your absence Bucky and Sam have shifted into your left behind warmth and found the other. Another day and you would have taken a pic of the scene, metal thrown over a waist that isn't your own, a brow tucked under a stubbled chin. But your nerves are still too sore. The nightmare is foggy with the morning, its presence remaining in the back of your mind tauntingly. You shake your head and trudge into the bathroom.

You take care of your morning routine and strip out of your wrinkled shirt, leaving the comfortable sweats slung low on your hips. The water is cold as you splash your face, droplets dripping into the basin as you stare at your reflection. Your heart beats hard as flashes of terror and loss flip through your mind's eye. Thor got there in time. Loki, of all people— _beings—_ helped save the world. Where you fell short the others took up the mantle. You have to remind yourself of this as knuckles turn white where your grip threatens the rim of the sink. You have to remind yourself that no one died, no one turned to bitter ash. Natasha and Wanda's low pitched conversation in the kitchen filters through the wall, grounding.

“Man, not again!”

Sam's croaked exclamation loosens the band around your chest and you draw air into your greedy lungs. Bucky's grumbled response along with the thud of a body hitting the floor thaws your muscles. They are okay.

You are okay.

You are all _home_.

  
  


end.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try something different, so I used hand wavy magic and this happened.


End file.
